


AELDWS

by squishywitch (Anshin)



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Arthur/Eames Last Drabble Writer Standing, Community: inceptiversary, Drabbles, Gen, M/M, Other, aeldws
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-05
Updated: 2015-08-17
Packaged: 2018-04-13 02:49:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 2,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4504782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anshin/pseuds/squishywitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>drabbles from the last drabble writer standing challenge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 2014 Round 1

2014 Round 1

_prompt: return to sender_

_limit: under 300 words_

 

A sharp but basic paper airplane narrowly misses hitting Arthur in the face.

He picks it up and shoots a glare at Eames.  Eames glances up from making another one and gives Arthur an infuriating smile—the kind that makes Arthur want to punch him in the nose and throw him over the nearest horizontal surface all at once.

Arthur goes back to his notes.

The next airplane skids across the table by his elbow and lands in the floor.  A more complicated design.  Arthur picks it up and drops it next to the first one, then notices the edges of scribbling vanishing under the creases.  He unfolds both.

The first says ‘Hello, darling’ in green ink and Eames’s ridiculous, loopy handwriting.  The second says ‘What are you doing tonite?’

A third misses the table altogether and hits Arthur in the shoulder.  They’re getting worse—Arthur isn’t sure where to start with unfolding this one.  But now it’s the principle, so he wrestles it open, ripping a corner in the process.  ‘I could make dinner, what would you like?’ it says.

Arthur shoves all three under his notebook.

A few minutes later, another dives under the table and hits him in the shin.  He shoots a ‘please knock it the fuck off’ look at Eames, and Eames gives him a look all innocence in response, bright eyes and palms showing.  Arthur stoops down to pick it up and turns it over a few times.  He wouldn’t be surprised if Eames devoured a book on origami last night with the sole intention of annoying him today.

Across one wing, Arthur scrawls, ‘Return to sender; Insufficient postage’, and throws it back at Eames.

Eames gets up and saunters over to kiss Arthur on the cheek.

"Better," says Arthur.

"Seven it is," says Eames.

 

 


	2. 2014 Round 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: first  
> genre: school AU  
> limit: under 400 words

Eames is the first visitor Arthur gets who he isn’t related to.  And Eames, of all things, brings him fucking flowers.

“What the fuck,” Arthur says, shoving himself upright.

“Hello to you too, darling,” Eames replies.  “I suspected the place might need some brightening up.”

“So you brought flowers?”

“And myself, naturally,” Eames says.  Arthur can’t deny that the room’s brighter with him in it, if only because the highlighter shades of his shirt are actively reflecting the fluorescent lights.  “How are you feeling?”

Arthur shrugs.  “Few broken bones, nothing major.  I’ll live.  Probably.  I mean, it took me all of two weeks to go from first car to first wreck, so I’m pretty sure as soon as I’m out of the hospital, Dad’s going to murder me.”

“Can’t be all that terrible.  You don’t look so bad.”

“I got hit in the passenger side.”

“Ah,” Eames says, dragging a chair over next to the bed.  “Well, if worse comes to worst, you can always come stay with me for a bit.”

“Yeah, I don’t think he’d like that much.”

Eames grins.  “Or we could always hop a flight to London.  I’ve still got relatives there.”

“Eames,” Arthur says, shooting for patience and falling a mile short.  “If he’s not gonna like me crashing at your place to escape his wrath, what makes you think he’ll approve of me skipping town?  To go to fucking England with my fucking definitely-not-boyfriend?”

“Is he still after you about that?”

“I had to make up a clever story to explain why I was driving in the middle of the night and he’s not buying it, so I’m pretty sure he’s trying to figure out how to blame you.”  Arthur shifts his arm in its sling.  “Don’t be surprised if he tries to send you a hospital bill.”

“I really ought to talk to him, mayb—”

“No.”

Eames blinks, then shrugs.  “Your call, love.  If you do decide you’d like to hide out, though, my doors are open.  Oh, and.”  Eames reaches over to the flowers and extracts a Toblerone bar to hand to Arthur.

“Oh jesus fucking christ, I love you,” Arthur says, grabbing it and tearing into the cardboard.

Eames chuckles.  “Love you too, darling.  I’m going to make myself scarce in case your father shows up, yeah?  If he asks, tell him one of your theatre friends brought the flowers.”

 

 


	3. 2014 Round 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> genre: digital epistolary  
> limit: 350-450 words

_Documents recovered 18 July 2014, Kiev,_ [redacted]

_Total files: 13; total space used: 1.37 GB_

_File 1, text-only, reads as follows:_

Bit stuck here.  I’ll meet with you as soon as I can, but as it stands, I doubt I’m getting out of Europe any time before the next ice age.  All relevant information is included, as well as the encoded information for the correct flight to Barcelona—you’ll find it a touch easier to board with the ID I’ve included.  I hope you don’t mind playing a political attaché.  Best of luck, darling.

***

_Documents recovered 22 September 2014,_ [redacted]

_Total files: 2; total space used: 573 MB_

_File 1, text-only, reads as follows:_

Had to make a run for it.  Sorry, but it’ll be a few months.  I’m going to ground.  Hope you find this before your birthday.  Delete the video when you’re done with it.  Security reasons.

***

_Documents recovered 29 December 2014, London,_ [redacted] _Street_

Total files: 7; total space used: 1.1 GB

File 1, text-only, reads as follows:

You’re a cruel man.  I’ve got a flat secured whenever you’re able.  Please do be careful.  There’s eyes on us in several locations.  They haven’t thought to look in the most obvious places, though, hence this drop.  Be safe.  I’ll see you soon.  Relevant information enclosed, etc, as well as a small transfer I think you’ll find useful.

***

_From:[penrose.dice@gmail.com](mailto:penrose.dice@gmail.com)_

_To:[naughttodowithyou@gmail.com](mailto:naughttodowithyou@gmail.com)_

_30 December 2014  07:39_

Asshole.  I know you’re here.  Don’t pretend you’re not staring at me across the street.

***

_New message: +44 [redacted]_

not now luv.  Meet you at the flat in 20 yeah?  cant blame a man.  missed your horribly charming frown. :)

***

_New message: 00 1 [redacted]_

Yeah, sure.  You’re cooking me dinner tonight.  I think you got me addicted to eating actual food that didn’t come from a box or the freezer.

***

_New message: +44 [redacted]_

mmm.  whatever you want.  your in charge of groceries.  ;)

***

_New message: 00 1 [redacted]_

You are so lucky I haven’t had any in like a year or your stupid emoticons would be a turn-off.  And for fuck’s sake, Eames, it’s YOU’RE.  Why is it only in texts that you lose all intelligence?

***

_New message: +44 [redacted]_

cant talk staring at your arse <3

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: roleplay  
> limit: 400-500 words
> 
> warning: consensual non-consent

Arthur can’t catch his breath.  His chest burns, his limbs feel like jelly, his head throbs and spins—he swears if he has to take another step, he’s going to collapse.

Adrenaline coursing, body protesting, he shoves himself to his feet.

Arthur runs.

Arthur runs until he feels sick, until his vision starts to dim.  But he can feel eyes on him, the steady patter of footfalls on asphalt, and he knows no matter where he turns, where he hides, he _will_ be found.

A shadow looms before him, all but invisible against the brickwork and night, and he collides, staggers—is caught, below his arms, dragged to his feet, slung around with his arms shoved up in the middle of his back, shoulders straining.

Hot breath on his ear, a low purr from the west of London, says, “All mine, pet,” just before Arthur blacks out from exhaustion.

***

Arthur comes around bound on a bed in dark room, his arms behind his back with rope rubbing skin from wrist to elbow, ankles tied.  His clothes and hair stick to his skin with drying sweat.  His entire body aches, in waves through muscles, in sharp stabs at his joints, in a steady pulse through his head in time with his heartbeat.

“About time,” his captor says.  “I was beginning to worry.”

(There’s no concern in the tone.  But the sentiment, the opening, is there.)

“Fuck off,” Arthur says.

“Now, that’s not very nice.”

“Fuck you,” Arthur says.

His captor clicks his tongue.  “I’m afraid not.”  Arthur hears the faint sound of metal on metal, an open blade.  The bed dips with weight, then there’s a hand on his hip and the knife under the edge of his waistband, the back of the blade icy against his skin.

“Hey,” Arthur says, then the blade slices through the fabric, with effort at first, through the stitches, and then the fabric rips with no help from the knife.  “ _Hey_!”  He squirms futilely.  The blade moves next between his ankles to cut the rope.  Arthur kicks, makes contact with hard muscle, hears the sharp exhale and then the knife hits the floor.  A hand on his head, shoving him into the mattress, the other yanking his trousers around his thighs, a knee shoving his apart.  One hand moves from his head to the space between his bunched shoulder blades.  The other goes to his hip, forces him up on his knees.

He hears a zipper come undone, then a bottle, and there’s rough fingers and ice-cold lube smearing between his legs, over his hole, then shoving in.  Arthur yelps.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he bites, writhing, flinching away.  “Fuck, goddamnit—stop, _stop—fuck you—ah!_ ”

Hard cock shoves in with little pretense.  

“ _Stop!_ ” Arthur says.

“ _Please_ —ah, fuck—stop, let me go, _stop_!” Arthur says.

Arthur says everything but Eames’s name, because Eames’s name would stop everything, and that’s the last thing he wants.  It’s rough.  It hurts.  He’s going to feel this for the next week.  And it’s exactly what he wanted.

 

 


	5. 2015 Round 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: souvenir  
> limit: under 300 words

One flight to Moscow, a rail ride to Novosibersk, by car to Tomsk Oblast, and halfway down the remaining dirt road, Arthur wonders if Eames isn’t luring him out to dump his body in some lake that’s frozen 80% of the year.  But that’d be a long con, especially for Eames, and Arthur, well, trusts him.  The directions were clear and Arthur’s only panicking a little by the time a small dwelling comes into view, sod-roofed with only a half-metre of wall and window visible above the earth.

Eames meets Arthur at the door.  “Welcome to my humble abode,” he says warmly.

Arthur heads down and in.  It’s a lot bigger than it looks on the outside, but then, Arthur expected maybe two rooms.  “You never answered.  Why do you own a safehouse in fucking Siberia?”

“Why not?”  Eames leads him towards the kitchen.  “Can you think of anywhere safer?”

Arthur gets caught in the hallway while taking off his coat, looking at the bright paintings on the wall.  They’re not prints, that much is obvious.  They’re also all boxed behind glass, as if on display at a museum, which is what tips off Arthur’s suspicion.

“Forgeries?” he asks.

Eames leans around the end of the counter to look.  “Those?  No.  Souvenirs.”

“Souvenirs,” Arthur deadpans.  “From...?”

“Amsterdam.  Well.  One’s from London.”

Arthur comes into the kitchen and sits down at the table, where Eames serves him a much-needed cup of coffee, black and hellishly sweet.  “We need to work on your definition of ‘souvenir’, Eames.  Because that would mean buying a snowglobe or shot glass, not stealing a fucking painting.”

“I prefer to think of it as ‘borrowed’,” Eames says, sitting across with steaming Earl Grey in hand.  He smiles like a criminal.  “So how was your trip?”

 


	6. 2015 Round 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: negotiation  
> limit: under 250 words

On the table by the bed are a steroid inhaler, horse-pill antibiotics, and a bottle of codeine cough syrup, ostensibly cherry-flavoured.  In the bed is Arthur, sweat-dappled, strawberry-red, his hair in damp loose curls, fevered and arguing.  By the bed, medicine spoon in hand, is Eames.

“I’m fine,” Arthur says, despite declarations of dying an hour ago.

“You have a fever,” Eames replies, same as before.

“‘S nothing,” Arthur mumbles.  “M’throat doesn’t e—”

A coughing fit, barking and loud, interrupts, showing him to be a liar.  Eyebrow quirked, Eames replies, “So I see.”

Arthur rolls over and pulls the sweat-soaked sheets tight around his shoulders.  “I don’t like it,” he says.

“It’s just strep.  It’ll be gone in a few days.”

“No, the syrup,” Arthur says, face scrunched.  “It’s icky.”

Eames can’t help but be charmed; Arthur sounds so young when ill.

“Maybe if you put it on your cock I could suck it off.  That’d be okay.”

Eames stands corrected, both aghast and amused.  Arthur looks so pathetic, trying to give Eames that come-on smirk when he can barely keep his eyes open.  The attempt fades, and Arthur scrubs a hand across his forehead.

“That’s a terrible idea,” Eames replies.  “But if you cooperate, you can have an ice lolly.”

“Really?” Arthur seems genuinely interested. Then he leans up a little.  “Fine.”

Eames spoons the dose into Arthur’s mouth and smiles as Arthur forces it down, grimacing.

“See?  Not so bad.”

“Says you,” Arthur grumbles.  “And I want grape.”

 

 


	7. 2015 Round 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: precision  
> genre: sci-fi AU  
> limit: 300-350 words
> 
> warning: severe bodily injury

By the time Arthur finds Eames, he’s delirious with blood loss.  Doesn’t even scream when Arthur unclips his medkit and cauterises the wound, doesn’t protest with Arthur hauls him up into a fireman’s carry.  Arthur runs, grateful that Eames is more lightweight carbon fibre these days than hard-packed muscle, balancing speed and stealth to best avoid any more drone encounters.  They make it off the vessel with no more losses, onto their starcutter, and into hyperspace, no tails as far as Arthur can see.  He lays out their course and heads down to the cramped medbay to check on Eames.

“Patient stable,” the nurse droid informs him.  “Patient suffered transhumeral amputation.  Recommendation: fabrication and grafting of artificial limb.  Patient removed of approximately two litres of blood.  Recommendation: immediate transfusion.”

“You start on the transfusion,” Arthur says, “I’ll draw up the specs.”

Once the transfusion’s started, it takes a minute before Eames comes around, still a bit pale but conscious, at least.  Sweating.  His eyes harden; he’s starting to realise how much pain he’s in.  Arthur tries not to let it worry him, scanning Eames’s remaining arm and plugging in the specs to print the replacement for the missing one.

“You’ve gotta quit doing this, Eames,” Arthur says.

Eames forces a laugh.  “And deprive you the opportunity to work on me?  Never.”

“I don’t know if you’re keeping track, but that’s three.”

The printer makes quick work of the carbon fibre copy, the nurse droid administers a local anaesthetic, and Arthur sits down to set to work.

“You’re really telling me you don’t enjoy this?” Eames says, watching Arthur’s hands, the tiny motions, the quick-flick focus in his eyes, matching wetware to organics, careful and quick.

“I don’t like you nearly getting yourself killed,” Arthur replies, terse.

“But you like the work.  It’s like a puzzle.”

“A fucking high-stakes one.”  Arthur pulls back for a second.  “Can you move your fingers?”

Eames does.  “I’m glad it’s you, though,” he says.  “No one else is as precise.”

“Shut up and let me work.”

Eames smiles, because Arthur never could take a compliment.

 


	8. 2015 Round 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: amnesia  
> limit: under 200 words

Christian.

The first time he finds himself conscious enough to respond, he tells the nurse his name is Christian.  He doesn’t know why.  It’s only that he can’t remember which name he was using before, or which they expect him to offer, and it seems like a nice name.

David, the next time.  Jacob.  Isaiah.  Basil.  Noah.  All names that have been his--or perhaps none of them have.  It’s just as easy to say he’s gone by many aliases as it is to say he’s never really had a name.  Not one he could own.  Not for a long time.

He sleeps between names, dreamless and deep, and can’t recall which he offered last when he awakes.  

Eli.  Adrick.  Ruben.  Scott.

None familiar enough.  None with a sense of identity.

He awakes again, and all at once, recalls one name that means something.  Not his--he can’t articulate that it isn’t, only that it’s important, can’t explain that maybe it’s attached to the one person who can remind him of his own.  Tells the nurse, then, insists:

Arthur.

Arthur.

Arthur.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as a side note, this week's prompt was simultaneously easy and hard for me because i already have fics in the works that involve short-term amnesia. (poor eames. i pick on eames so much.) it was just a matter of picking which one to go with and then figure out how to do it justice in so few words. strangely enough, i picked the one that the relevant scene is in flashbacks. whoops. so, uh, i guess what i'm saying is that there's more fic to this that'll be posted, er, someday.


	9. 2015 Round 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: role-reversal  
> limit: exactly 250 words

“What gives?”

Arthur’s voice snaps Eames out of his reverie, glazing over the pages of a book he picked up in the airport.  A serial killer in Stalinist Russia; the content is compelling enough, but he cannot make himself sink into the style, not when his head’s buzzing like this.  He looks over at Arthur, confused, and makes a humming noise to convey as much.

“That,” Arthur says, gesturing at him.  “I usually can’t get a word in edgewise with you.  No running commentary?  I feel like I’m talking to myself here.”

Had Arthur been talking?  Eames can’t quite recall.  Where his head’s been, he doesn’t know.

And there’s no accusation in Arthur’s words, only soft ribbing, but it makes Eames’s chest tighten.  Here he’s been, sitting quietly, with his guard down.  No sarcasm, no mask, nothing to hide behind.

It hits him like a bullet to the gut: he trusts Arthur.

_He trusts Arthur._

“Eames?” Arthur prompts.

Oh.

Damn.

“I--I’m sorry, I--” Eames says, thinks maybe he says more, but whatever it is, it’s tangled in the blur that follows: scrambles from the bed, suitcase overturned in the floor, snatches up an orange bottle, dives into the bathroom, slams and locks the door.

There, laid bare before him as he pops a clonazepam, is his biggest fear: that someone might see what he never meant them to see, that someone might discover who he is beneath the endless forge, and that that someone might be someone he cares about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for those who mentioned it, incidentally, the child 44 ref was an accident--i knew what year/month i wanted to set this in, roughly, so i went to look at the bestseller list and it was on there. i chalked it up to fate.
> 
> this has been a blast, and i will be back to do more next year. thank you to everybody for the lovely feedback through the rounds! i am sad to go, but hey, i made it further this year than last! (it's just a damn shame i don't get to write for the historical AU. i am SO UPSET about that alone, but hey, it happens.)
> 
> please note that any inception fic i write that's not tied to LJ won't be on this pseud, it'll be on my main, if you're interested in reading it. lots of love for all the kind words and votes, and good luck to the very deserving remaining authors!


End file.
